Tonight, he was engaged in mission number sixty-four. At the end of the deserted alley was a single door leading to a basement apartment. As usual, the door was not locked. Opening it, Boris stepped inside. A single light bulb burned above the entrance. It shed just enough radiance to illuminate one end of an old wood table extending into the inky blackness. Set in front of the table was a rickety old chair. As best Boris could tell, it was the same table and chair that had been there on the first of his visits twenty-five years ago.

Boris sat down. His hosts never arrived until a few minutes after he was settled. That, too, was part of the ritual. They came after him and left before him. Never once had he caught a glimpse of them. They moved in absolute silence and remained always in the shadows. Yet he knew immediately when they entered the room. Their smell betrayed them.

Boris’s nose wrinkled in disgust. The most liberal doses of perfume could not hide the stink that announced the arrival of his three hosts. It was a pungent, unforgettable smell that somehow reminded Boris of reptiles.

Ignoring the odor, Boris leaned forward, elbows on the table. “I want a man killed. He betrayed his country, Mother Russia. His death is necessary for the good of the state.”

“You know our price,” said the woman who usually did most of the talking. Her deep, gravelly voice was barely more than a whisper, but it filled the entire chamber. Like her companions, she never offered her real name. Instead, she used a title. “The Retaliator.” It fit.